


Lost and Found

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demisexual Castiel, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Chuck Shurley? Sure, I’ve read his books. Kinda Vonnegut, but like, Kilgore-Trout Vonnegut, you know?” Dean took another gulp of his whisky, and smacked his lips like an adult. The guy sitting beside him at the bar, however, did not look suitably impressed. In fact, he was staring down into the bubbles of his cider, not even noticing the way that Dean was smiling at him, giving him the eyes.<br/>“I thought his stuff was pretty good, in a kinda metamodern way,” Dean added airily, and a little more loudly.<br/>The guy only nodded gloomily. Dean almost clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in frustration. C’mon, dude, I’m trying to impress you. Twenty minutes of talking and all Dean had to show for it was a weird first name, a series of dour stares and the strangest need to know more about this – Castiel.<br/>________________________________________________________<br/>Written to fill this lovely prompt: Person A is the son of an arrogant author and Person B has read all of that author’s works but happens to think that the stories Person A tells them when they look at the stars are way more beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LetThereBeDestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetThereBeDestiel/gifts).



“Chuck Shurley? Sure, I’ve read his books. Kinda Vonnegut, but like, Kilgore-Trout Vonnegut, you know?” Dean took another gulp of his whisky, and smacked his lips like an adult. The guy sitting beside him at the bar, however, did not look suitably impressed. In fact, he was staring down into the bubbles of his cider, not even noticing the way that Dean was smiling at him, giving him the eyes.

“I thought his stuff was pretty good, in a kinda metamodern way,” Dean added airily, and a little more loudly.

The guy only nodded gloomily. Dean almost clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in frustration.  _C’mon, dude, I’m trying to impress you._ Twenty minutes of talking and all Dean had to show for it was a weird first name, a series of dour stares and the strangest need to know more about this –  _Castiel._

Maybe he should be taking the hint, though. The bar was full of people, and Dean was bound to find someone else who might actually  _want_ to talk to him, which would make a nice change. Though Dean had the feeling that even if he got up and left, he’d still be glancing back every twenty seconds – checking to see if Castiel was still here, maybe taking a deep pull on his cider, or  _maybe_  even watching Dean…

He sighed. For some reason, this was going to be an evening lived in reference to Castiel, whether Dean was sat here on this barstool or over by the pool table or back beside the jukebox. And if he did leave this spot, he knew full well that he’d only spend his evening laughing too loudly at jokes he’d barely heard and making himself large in the room and generally trying too hard to be attractive to the person right in front of him, right now.

So he might as well stay.

“He’s my father,” said Castiel, breaking into Dean’s thoughts unexpectedly. It was only the fourth or fifth time he’d spoken beyond monosyllables since Dean had sat down next to him, grinning warmly, resting one hand on the bar and letting the other spread wide over his own thigh. Castiel’s voice still took Dean aback with its roughness.

“Chuck Shurley,” Castiel clarified, looking over at Dean when he received no response. Dean blinked back to reality. “He’s my father.”

“Wow, really?” Dean said, trying not to sound too sceptical. He’d heard a thousand take-me-to-bed lies, but this was one of the weirder ones. Not least because Castiel really didn’t seem interested at all in actually taking Dean to bed; he just didn’t have the look in his eye, the tension in his body. Maybe he was really telling the truth.

Castiel nodded mutely, and took a sip of cider.

“Huh.” Dean paused for a second. “So… what’s it like, having a famous writer for a father?”

Castiel looked down into his drink for a long couple of seconds, and then looked up at Dean. Dean blinked. There was something in Castiel’s eyes, something… quietly judgmental, as though he were weighing Dean, wondering about him. Dean swallowed. He knew that look – it was the ‘how much do I tell you’ look; the one that spoke of a history, a thoughtfulness, possibly a certain level of damage. For the first time since he’d sat down, Dean was aware of Castiel as a person, rather than a body and a voice and a pair of blue eyes: a person as complicated as he was, himself. Dean raised his chin and watched Castiel right back, wondering if he’d get a good answer, or a true answer, or even any answer at all.

Castiel opened his mouth, dropping his gaze.

“Like being chained to a comet,” he said quietly, not looking into Dean’s eyes. Honest, then. Honest enough that he only wanted to confess it, didn’t say it to provoke a reaction.

“Chained to a – comet?” Dean pressed, when Castiel said nothing more. Castiel raised one shoulder.

“Being dragged around,” he said. “And never having any say in anything. Never making your own choices. And never getting a chance to –” He broke off, with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to… I don’t get to talk about it much.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said quickly, automatically – but he meant it, he really did. There was something about the way Castiel spoke that was complex without being untruthful, and it was actually – Dean was kind of confused to admit – very attractive. Not in a physical way – the guy’s deep and delicious voice was still taking care of that – but in an ‘I want to sit here and hear your thoughts about everything, ever’ kind of way. What the hell?

Dean was so alarmed by the novelty of it that he almost slipped right off his stool and walked away, then and there. But then Castiel sighed, and it was so natural, and so tired, that Dean settled back into his seat, back into the conversation, somehow reassured.

“You mean, he takes you around for book signings and stuff?” he hazarded. Kind of a stupid question, not on the same figurative level as Castiel and his chains and comets, but Dean wanted to understand. Castiel lifted one shoulder.

“He used to,” he said. “Then, one day, he left me behind. Never spoke to me again.”

Dean’s throat seemed to seal over. He cleared it a couple of times, wanting to reach out and put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, but not quite having the courage. He didn’t know if the touch would be welcome, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to make the words strong enough and deep enough to hold a little of his empathy, a little of his own sadness. To his ears, they came out sounding just as vapid as any other apology offered by one stranger to another. But maybe there was something in them for Castiel, who blinked over at him with an expression of slight surprise, and then tipped a little more cider into his mouth.

He swallowed it thickly, and shrugged again.

“So it goes,” he said, with a dry little glance that Dean caught. It made him smile.

“So it goes,” he agreed, and took a more measured sip of his whisky. It tasted like poisoned soil, but he liked the way the amber liquid looked inside the glass in his hand on the bar, the way the sight of it fitted neatly with the croon of music from the juke, the thin straining ache in his shoulders and up his neck.

And so the evening passed: in quietness, mostly, an oddly-weighted mixture of silences and cut-off sentences. The significance of every word seemed to be intensified. Dean had never had an evening that felt so  _important,_ even though they didn’t talk about much: their drinks, the music, the rain, the promise of snow – at one point, the way that they felt as though something they desperately needed was missing, but they could never tell what it was, because it wasn’t there, and the only way to understand it was to feel all around the place where it was missing and find out the shape of it so they could look for it but that  _hurt –_ and then they went back to the weather. It had been a dark, leafy October.

“It’s late,” said Castiel, finally. Dean glanced at the clock, blinking at it twice when its hands smiled a crooked twenty to one. He felt slightly giddy, though he’d long since switched his whisky for a light beer. He took the final draught of it now, wiping his mouth afterwards and looking over at Castiel, who was looking at him. Dean could feel his heart actually stutter in his chest, flustered.

This hadn’t been how it was supposed to go; he was almost embarrassed at himself. He’d come out for a cruise, and now – well, now he found himself pretty much falling overboard, with heartbeats skipping and cheeks reddening and everything.  _Crap._

Castiel was still looking at him, waiting for him to say something.

Dean wanted to say,  _I’m not ready to go home. Let’s find another bar._

Dean wanted to say,  _I’m not ready to go home. Let’s go for a drive._

Dean most wanted to say,  _I’m not ready to go home. Where do you want to go?_

Dean opened his mouth.

“We should go home,” he said.  _Coward. Coward, coward, **coward.**_ What was he even afraid of? That Castiel might say no? That Castiel might say yes?

Castiel nodded, slowly.

“We should,” he said.

There was a pause, a long one. Dean wanted to imagine that it was a tense pause, full of words unsaid, but Castiel didn’t seem bothered by the idea that they were going to go their separate ways in just a few moments, and never speak to each other again. Dean didn’t know what to do with his hands; he kept shifting them on and off the bar, twisting them one over the other. He wished he had a pen, so that he could scribble his number on Castiel’s hand and leave with a suave smile. He wished he had the courage to just reach over and take Castiel’s hand in his own. He wished… oh, but wishing was for cowards. Damn it, all he’d wanted tonight was a cheap hook-up, not… whatever  _this_ was.

Castiel turned to look at him, and smiled slightly. How was Dean going to be able to say goodbye to that? He was opening his mouth to speak; Dean tried to focus.

“Yours, or mine?” Castiel said, and Dean’s heart almost stopped.

“Either,” he managed to say, and then thought of the bareness of his little apartment. “Yours.”

Castiel nodded. There was something in it, some kind of soft smile around his mouth, some releasing of tension in his shoulders, that told Dean how nervous Castiel had been about asking that question. His eyes were still a little wide; maybe he was even surprised that Dean had said yes. That thought alone made Dean want to take Castiel’s face in his hands and kiss him. His heart was thudding out a happy beat in his chest, and he wondered if Castiel’s was playing a matching rhythm.

“I live not far from here,” Castiel said, standing up and pulling on his coat. “It’s up a hill.” He looked at Dean, both eyebrows slightly dipped, as though concerned that the topography would somehow be a deal-breaker. Dean smiled and shrugged, trying to put Castiel at his ease.

“I’m down for going up,” he said, resisting the urge to say,  _and the reverse, too, if you know what I mean._  Normally the line would have been out of his mouth before he’d thought twice, but… it just didn’t seem right to be flirting so cheaply, not tonight. Not on a night that was worth its weight in gold. Castiel smiled at him, and they turned to go.

Outside, the coldness swept over them, chilling Dean’s skin but not coming close to taking the edge off the giddiness and the warmth in his chest. Castiel was walking beside him, setting off down the sidewalk at a steady pace. Dean could feel himself practically skipping along, and tried to calm down, or at the very least wipe the grin off his face.

Castiel looked over at him, and caught him smiling. He smiled, too, a gentle thing, eyes bright and familiar as though he’d known Dean for years – and now Dean didn’t want to stop beaming, not ever, because if there was even the slightest chance that it’d make Castiel smile at him like that, he just couldn’t pass that up. What was it about this guy that made his heart thud in his chest, in the best possible way?

They followed the road, mostly in silence, Dean enjoying the simplicity of the passing moments. His mind was full of Castiel and nothing else, a breather from his troubles and cares. When they started to climb the promised hill, Dean found he was too short of breath to say much, anyway. The road was winding, with trees on either side that murmured to each other, leaves whispering and kissing in the dark. Dean’s hands were loose by his sides, and so were Castiel’s. Dean wondered if Castiel felt the spaces between his fingers as a lack, or a freedom. And he wondered whether, if he were to put his own fingers into those spaces, it would be a cage or a comfort.

He hadn’t the courage to find out. If Castiel’s hand went limp beneath his own, didn’t hold him right, everything would be different. Everything would be ruined.

“We’re almost there,” Castiel said, just as they emerged out of the trees. The road continued a little way and a hundred metres or so up it, Dean could make out the lights of a cosy little house tucked in next to a grand old tree, whose branches dripped down in tearful strings. Dean thought of his own shabby apartment, and was glad that they’d come here, instead.

“Looks like a nice place,” he said to Castiel. Every time he spoke, he was worried that Castiel was going to roll his eyes – everything he said was so  _boring_ , so obvious – but Castiel only nodded solemnly.

“Being the son of a rich author has its upsides,” he said, a sudden gust of wind almost swallowing his words. Dean shivered, and thought he noticed Castiel step up the pace a little.

“He pays for your house, even though…?” Dean said, breaking off a little too quickly, because ‘even though he never speaks to you’ seemed like a harsh thing to say. It was an even harsher thing to  _do_ , Dean thought with a tiny clench of anger, as Castiel mentally filled in the rest of Dean’s sentence for himself, face pinched with sadness.

“I don’t understand it either,” he said. Dean wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, again, but they were almost at Castiel’s house and the moment slipped into the past as the lights drew them forwards. The house had a porch made of white-painted wood, which looked a gentle lacquered orange in the light from the lamp above the door. As Castiel fumbled for his keys – a weirdly normal gesture, Dean thought, from someone so generally other-worldly – Dean turned around, scuffing his boots against the wood beneath his feet. The road they’d walked up was a grey tarmac river flowing naturally down the hill. The trees were still sighing, peering up towards the house. And above them…

“There’s not so much light pollution from the town up here,” Castiel said, as Dean heard the click and thunk of the door being unlocked and opened. Castiel came and stood beside Dean, looking upwards with him. “That’s why you can see them so clearly.”

Castiel’s face was smooth and relaxed, but the expression in his eyes was complex, beyond Dean’s understanding. For the hundredth time that night, Dean wanted to kiss him.

“It’s beautiful,” said Dean, and he wasn’t looking at the stars.

He didn’t know why he was still hesitating, still waiting for the right moment to actually touch Castiel for the first time. Maybe it was the fact that every other person he’d ever hooked up with, he’d ended up losing – the morning after, the week after, sometimes even on the same night, when they’d shimmied back into their jeans and left his bed half-empty. And he didn’t want that to happen with Castiel. He really,  _really_ didn’t want that to happen. He couldn’t even explain to himself why. Sure, he and Castiel had a little in common, their conversation flowed easily, their silences were mutually appreciated and not awkward. They worked well together, or at least, they had so far. But that wasn’t really enough to justify the horrible tightness in Dean’s chest when he thought of Castiel closing the door on him, or of walking back down the hill alone, with the trees muttering amongst themselves as they watched him disappear. Why did he even care?

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just tricking himself into caring because… because he wanted to, wanted to have an attachment to someone, and Castiel spoke little enough that Dean could paste whatever personality he wanted into the silent spaces. Dean could imagine that Castiel was… serious, and calm, intelligent but still kind, deep but without pretensions, with a dry sense of humour and bright, bright eyes, and a vibe to him of having a story about himself constantly unfolding, a story that Dean wanted to write himself into in big, important letters…

Yeah, sure, Dean was just  _imagining_ the way that he liked this guy, it had  _nothing_ to do with who Castiel actually was.

Dean swallowed. It had been five hours since he’d met Castiel. He needed to take a seriously big step back.

“Coming in?” Castiel said, finally taking his eyes off the stars, turning round and making for the inviting light of the doorway. Dean didn’t hesitate. He stepped forwards, and into Castiel’s home.

Inside, the place was a comfortable mess. Every surface was littered with books, with coffee cups, with stray papers and coins and newspapers folded untidily. The hallway led straight through into a large living room, where Castiel gestured to a big, ungainly couch, switching on a lamp.

“I’ll make us some drinks,” he said. “Alcoholic, or…?”

“Let me help,” Dean said quickly, not wanting to be left in here alone, tapping his knees together and waiting. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Castiel smiled and led him through to the kitchen, a pokier little room – or perhaps it only felt that way because of the plants dripping waxy leaves down from the top of every cupboard, making the place smell of Italian pizza and peppermint gum.

“Basil,” Castiel said as he put a pan of water on to boil, answering Dean’s unspoken question. “Oregano, coriander, mint, rosemary and thyme. I use them in cooking.”

“Wish I could cook,” Dean said wistfully, rubbing a twisted basil leaf between his fingers, releasing the delicious scent. “Always wanted to learn, but there was never time.”

“One day,” Castiel said, not a platitude, but a statement of fact. Dean could almost believe that Castiel had taken a peek into his future, he spoke with such certainty.

“Yeah,” he said, almost believing it himself. “One day. I’ll probably – heh, I’ll probably be bad at it, though.”

Castiel did no more than throw him a look – one that said, quite eloquently,  _shut up, Dean_. But in a good way. Dean grinned. God, he wanted that look in his  _life_.

The water on the stove was bubbling, and Castiel was opening a cupboard, brushing aside rosemary to pick out two mugs. Dean picked up a green oven glove lying on the counter and picked up the saucepan by its metal handle, and Castiel turned off the gas.

“Hot chocolate?” he said, as Dean held the saucepan steady.

“Hell, yeah,” Dean said, and Castiel ran his hands over a huddle of jars and pots on the counter next to the fridge, selecting a purple one with white swirling letters on the side. He spooned out cocoa powder, and then Dean poured the water on top, steam swirling, while Castiel replaced the purple jar and opened another cupboard.

“Would you like some rum?” Castiel asked, retrieving a bottle of amber liquid and holding it up to Dean, eyebrows raised.

“Well, now you’re talking,” Dean grinned. “Dirty hot chocolates for two.”

“Dirty?” Castiel said, squinting over at Dean as he unscrewed the bottle lid.

“Yeah, you know. Like, spiked with alcohol. Dirty.” Dean smirked, and this time he couldn’t resist a wink – his heart fluttered – but it was alright, Castiel was smiling back at him, and maybe there was even… was that a little heated glint in his eyes?

Dean felt a small hunger unfurl inside him, at the sight of that glance. He licked his lips and watched as Castiel turned away to put the saucepan into the sink, taking in his broad shoulders and strong, thick body and tight jeans all over again. Fuck.

“We could drink them in the lounge,” Castiel said, coming back over to pick up his mug. “Or we could go out onto the porch.”

“The porch?” Dean said sceptically. “Dude. It’s freezing outside.”

“I have blankets,” Castiel offered, with a shrug. “I like to sit out there sometimes. But if you’d prefer not to –”

“No, no,” said Dean. “It’s cool. The porch sounds good.” He didn’t even know why he was agreeing. The porch did not sound nearly as good as cosying up together on the big cushioned sofa in the living room. But there was something in the way that Castiel had said it… his tone had been weighted strangely, as though he’d been hoping to tip the balance towards that option, or perhaps as though – as though sitting on the porch were somehow important, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he wanted to show Dean why. For some reason, it mattered to Castiel that they did this, and Dean… Dean couldn’t seem help himself wanting to understand that.

They made their way back through the house, Castiel hooking a bundle of blankets under one arm as he passed a large pile of them sitting on a table in the living room. Dean clutched his hot chocolate tightly as the front door opened again, spilling them out into the coldness of the night. Castiel sat down first, and Dean hesitated over distances between them for a few seconds before deciding on a neat thirty centimetres. He could almost feel his usual self groaning at him as he sat down; a ruler’s width? He was a high-school teen all over again. He set his hot chocolate down on the step beside him.

Castiel passed him a blanket, which Dean gratefully wrapped around his shoulders. It smelled of basil, and washing powder, and most strongly of something that Dean didn’t recognise – a person smell, presumably Castiel’s. It smelled good, really good. Comforting, but also…  _good_ , in a way that Dean couldn’t entirely explain, but which had something to do with the hunger sitting low inside him and growing a little stronger, and a little needier, every time Dean took a breath of that smell. Or looked over at Castiel, who was looking at him.

Their gazes held for a long, breathless moment, and then Dean blinked, and Castiel turned his head away. Round both of their lips was a smile, soft and sweeter than words could have been.

“I like being out here,” Castiel said, after a moment. His face was tilted upwards, towards the stars. “It makes me feel… small.”

“Small?” Dean said, reaching down for his hot chocolate and cupping it in his cold hands. “Why’d you like that?”

“You don’t?” Castiel said, not taking his eyes off the skies above, so he must have understood the shake of Dean’s head without seeing it.

“I guess it is a little strange. But it makes a good change.”

“From what?” Dean asked, breathing in the scent of his steaming hot chocolate. He traced his eyes over the skies, the great midnight cloak of the night kissed with tiny glints of white. It truly was beautiful.

Castiel paused for a moment before answering, and Dean turned to look at him.

“I feel… large, somehow. All the time. Caught up in a box that I can’t escape.” He fell quiet, but Dean could sense him thinking, and waited. “I feel as though my existence is a set of parameters and rules that can’t be broken. But when I look up…” Dean watched him swallow. “I remember that I am not large. And I am not trapped. And there are no rules, not really. Only people who think there are.” He looked over at Dean. “And people who think there aren’t.”

It was the perfect moment to kiss him. Castiel’s lips looked soft and his head was tilted just right. Dean swallowed hard.

“You think about things a lot,” he said. “You should write a book, or something.”

Castiel dropped his gaze, half-smile fading.

“My father writes books,” he said.

“Dude. It’s not like there’s a limit on the amount of books in the world,” Dean said, frowning. “You like to write?”

Castiel said nothing for a long moment.

“I like to tell stories,” he said eventually, in a voice that was small, and flat.

“Yeah?” Dean said softly. “What kinds of stories?”

Castiel shrugged.

They sat in silence for a small while, sipping at their drinks, pinching their mouths tight because they were still hot enough to scald a little.

“There’s one I’ve been thinking about a lot recently,” said Castiel suddenly, the words spilling out through a broken dam of lost resolve. “While I’ve been sitting out here in the evenings.”

Dean said nothing, but shifted around a little, tilting his body towards Castiel, waiting. He sensed that if he spoke, it’d spoil it somehow. So he kept his mouth shut.

“It’s about that star,” Castiel said, pointing up, and Dean followed the line of his hand, noticing the length of his fingers, the size of his palm. “Or perhaps that one… or that one. They’re all the same, you see. From here, anyway. But when you get up close, you can see that they’re all different. And the story is about one specific star that’s completely different from all the rest. Because the star doesn’t have a name.” Dean was trying to keep his eyes on the stars, but he couldn’t help watching Castiel as he spoke; the look on his face was one of sadness, and Dean’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing together in sympathy. “Every star in the whole universe has a name, except for this one. Because, you see, stars are given their names by other stars. When one loves another, it will give it a name. A special word that only works between them, to hold them both together. But this single star didn’t have any names, not even one. No one had ever loved it.”

“Why – why not?” Dean couldn’t help asking. Castiel barely seemed to hear him, going on speaking and answering his question seemingly more by chance than choice.

“It was because nobody could see the star. It was just as bright as the others, just as unique. But there was something about it that made it invisible. It was a ghost star. It couldn’t be touched by any of the others, couldn’t be heard, couldn’t be seen. And no one can love something they can’t see. Nobody loves a ghost.”

Dean pulled his blanket in closer around himself, shivering ever so slightly. His hot chocolate was still steaming, the scent of cocoa warm and comforting.

“For millennia the star existed, alone. It drifted through the heavens, hopelessly. Wishing it had a name to fill the terrible void at its core. And then, one day, it realised something.” Dean was chewing his lip, fingers tight around his mug. “It realised that right in front of it, all along, there had been another star. A star that was just as bright and unique as all the others, but which couldn’t be seen. A star just like itself. A ghost star.”

Castiel took a sip of his own hot chocolate. His voice was steady, his eyes still watching the stars above, gaze moving in soft curves over the heavens.

“For the first time in the course of their existences, the ghost stars were seen. And once they were seen, they could not be ghosts, anymore. And they loved each other at once – for being eyes that saw. And for understanding the most important things immediately, because they were utterly different, but also entirely the same. One star named the other ‘Lost’, for what they had been. The other star named the first ‘Found’ for what they were now.”

The breeze was starting to pick up. Dean huddled his blanket closer around himself, his eyes still watching Castiel’s face, the way that it shifted subtly as the story unfolded; it was like watching thin shadows of great giants on the wall of a cave.

“Lost and Found existed for many millennia in happiness. And when the end of their lives approached, and they appeared to be burning out, they made a decision. Refusing to let one pass away before the other, they chose instead to leave the world together. One night, with the rest of the universe as oblivious as ever, the two stars collided.” Dean drew in a breath, feeling the cold air hit the very bottom of his lungs. “They fused messily, matter flinging far across the cosmos. Most of it was burned away by other stars, but specks of stardust still flew far and wide, into new galaxies, new solar systems. Through the pathways of planets and moons, and down to Earths. And on those Earths, they landed in the upturned eyes of the humans who were looking up – up at the stars.”

Castiel finally dipped his head, blinking his eyes as though to rid them of dust.

“And that is why some humans have a feeling that something is missing, sometimes,” he said. “They have a little of the Lost and Found about them. They can’t be seen by just anyone. They’re missing another person who is a little bit the same – a person who will see them. Will really  _see_ them, and be seen  _by_ them. And will love them for it at once. And will give them a name, a word spoken just between them, to bind each other together, until it is time for them to pass away from this universe, and on.”

He glanced over at Dean, who was gripping his hot chocolate without drinking it, as though he’d forgotten what it was for.

“The end,” he said dryly, lifting up one shoulder.

“Dude…” said Dean, aware that nothing he could say would convey the feeling he had inside – a feeling of understanding, of uplifting, of –  _shit_. He couldn’t even begin to express it. “That was  _amazing_ ,” he tried, though it wasn’t nearly enough. And the fact that Castiel had all of that tucked up inside his head? He couldn’t believe he’d somehow managed to get lucky enough to run into him in some random dive bar. On a night when he would have gone home with just about anyone cute enough, with a liar or a waster or a complete loser, he’d somehow ended up going home with a… a Castiel.

Castiel, meanwhile, had ended up going home with  _him_  – a liar, a waster, and a loser, all rolled into one. Crap. Guilt settled over his shoulders like a second blanket, a colder one, inside the first.

“Guess one of us really lucked out tonight,” was all he could manage to say to Castiel’s questioning face. Instead of the expression of badly-disguised agreement that he was expecting, however, Dean saw Castiel’s face twist into immediate and genuine confusion.

“What does that mean?” Castiel said, though Dean thought that Castiel must at least understand where he was coming from, even if he didn’t understand why. After all, Dean hadn’t told Castiel anything about his life. For all Castiel knew, he could be some kind of storyteller or deep thinker, too.

A large part of him really didn’t want to spill the truth – wanted to let Castiel keep thinking of him as someone also probably hiding some kind of great talent. Someone who deserved his attention. But… but that would be a lie by omission, and God, more than he wanted anything else in this moment, Dean wanted to do this  _right._ He wanted to do this thing between him and Castiel right. He couldn’t lie. Even if it meant losing – Dean bit his lip – losing a little of Castiel’s respect. Or even a lot of it.

He opened his mouth, not even knowing what he was going to say, how he would even begin to explain.

“I just… I mean… I mean, wow,” Dean said lamely, raising his hot chocolate mug in Castiel’s direction. “And I’m sittin’ here just… just being me. And me… being me, that is, I, I am, uh, really nothing special, at all. So.” Fuck, he sounded pathetic and he knew it, whiny and insufferable and begging for reassurance. “I don’t mean that self-pityingly,” he hastened to add, almost slopping a little of his remaining hot chocolate over the side of his mug as he shifted uncomfortably. “I just mean…”

“It’s alright,” Castiel said calmly, and Dean fell silent. “I understand. You don’t think you deserve to be here.”

He said it so bluntly that it almost took Dean’s breath away. He tried to reply, and found that he had nothing to say. Castiel, meanwhile, was frowning reflectively.

“I like you,” he said bluntly. “And I want you to be here. But I understand that on its own, that is not enough.” He turned to Dean with thoughtful eyes. “What is it that you’re good at?”

Dean could feel himself cracking like thin ice under too much pressure.

“Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Nothing.”

He saw Castiel’s hand stretch out of the corner of his eye, and understood that Castiel wanted to comfort him, wanted to place a hand on his arm. He didn’t know how to show that he wanted it, how to angle his body to accept it, and before he could find a way Castiel had already clenched his hand back into a loose fist.

“What’s your job?” Castiel asked. “How do you make money?”

Dean shrugged.

“I – I fix cars,” he said.

“You’re good at it?”

Dean said nothing. Good at it? He’d never thought of it in those terms. It had only ever been a job that needed doing, one broken car that needed to be fixed after another. Sure, he did get them all fixed, and pretty quickly, too, but… that didn’t mean he was  _good._ It just meant that he did what every car mechanic could do.

Except for Garth, over the other side of town, who couldn’t so much change out a spark plug without calling Dean to check he was doing it right, no matter if the sign over his door said  _The Best Mechanic in Town._ And Ellen, who’d been in the business far longer than he had, still said he did the neatest paint jobs she’d ever seen – and when she’d challenged him to fix her Old Unfixable, a big 1974 Chevrolet Pickup, he’d done it in two weeks and trimmed her out all pretty, too.

So maybe he was – sort of, maybe – a little bit good at it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, soft as leaves kissing. “Maybe.”

“Being good with your hands is a talent,” Castiel said, lacing the fingers of his own together.

Dean wanted that to be true, so badly. He wanted to be interesting, he wanted to have a talent, he wanted to be just a tiny bit special. So that he could match up to people like Castiel. So that he could match with Castiel,  _specifically._

“What do you feel when you fix a car?” Castiel asked, with quiet curiosity. Dean frowned.

“Hungry, mostly,” he said. “Lunch never comes soon enough, I’m telling you.”

Castiel smiled at that, sidelong, his eyes narrow and bright.

“No, I mean… what does it feel like to accomplish something physical? To make something work? I’ve never…” Castiel looked down at his palms, as though chastising them. “How does that feel?”

Dean hunched his shoulders up awkwardly.

“I dunno,” he said. His voice felt thick and too loud, awkward, too… big. He remembered Castiel’s advice, and looked up, up into the skies.  _Not too big. Not trapped. No rules. He_  didn’t have to live by his own rule of not knowing things, not saying things. He could  _try,_ at least. He cleared his throat, and began again.

“I guess – I guess I f-feel good. Because, say, I get this car, it comes in to me, and it’s broken.” He held his hands out in front of him, eyes focused on something that wasn’t there, seeing the car before him. “And the car, she needs me to help her. And I can do that, so I do it. And it’s like, when I can help, when I can make things better, it’s like – like I’m needed, you know? Like I’m in the right place, working at the shop, and people can come see me, and they know me and they know I’ll fix their car for them, and it’s like – like I belong, I guess.” Dean downed the last of his tepid hot chocolate, tasting the bitterness of the cocoa dregs. He licked his lips. “Yeah. Like I belong.”

Letting out a half-shaking sigh, Dean turned to look at Castiel. He had one eyebrow raised, mouth and nose scrunched up awkwardly to one side, awaiting his verdict.  _That’s the best I’ve got, man. No stars or anything. Sorry._

But Castiel was blinking at him thoughtfully, apparently considering what he’d said with real solemnity in his eyes. It took Dean aback; he’d half been expecting marks out of ten, or an elimination round.  _Dean Winchester, you are the Weakest Link. Goodbye._ But apparently, he’d done alright. He’d got Castiel thinking, if nothing else.

“So, you like that?” Castiel said. “That sense of belonging?”

“’Course,” Dean said, a little shyly. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Castiel was still for a moment, before shaking his head.

“Not me,” he said quietly. “I know that I should, but… I don’t, I... worry that I am not unique enough, not special enough. Belonging somewhere, not feeling strange or – or somehow different, it makes me feel so – average. I don’t want to be average, I want to be – unusual. I want to be a little bit removed, a little bit… lost.”

Dean placed his empty mug down on the wooden board beside him, to give himself time to think.

“You’ve got it backwards,” he said. “Or mixed up, man. I mean, I don’t want to challenge the word… guy… on the whole words, uh, thing, but. I don’t think belonging means what you think it means.”

Castiel turned to him, and the expression on his face was intense enough to make Dean gulp. He looked so beautiful, his face painted in orange and shadow, and when Dean looked at those full lips and wide blue eyes, his mind was half in the gutter, and half in the stars.

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked, softly. Dean cleared his throat, looking down and away before he did something stupid.

“I – I dunno,” he said gruffly. “Just, uh. You know, maybe. Maybe you’re thinking of belonging as like, I dunno – conforming, or something. But, actually, it’s not like that. Belonging means… well… well,  _you_ would belong somewhere that makes you feel special. And still a little bit, uh, lost, or something, even though you have a home. Like you could go away, but it would be the place that you could come back to.” He swallowed. Castiel’s eyes were flicking over his face, his expression unreadable. “Me, I’m not like that. I belong somewhere I feel useful, or whatever. Needed, maybe, or –” _loved,_ supplied his brain, but he wasn’t going to say that. He cleared his throat, and spoke a little faster, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Point is, we’re different, but we both could belong somewhere. And be happy to belong there.”

Castiel’s eyes were still on him, he could feel them. He wondered what Castiel was thinking. He wished he’d been able to say all of that better, without all the dumb stops and starts and shrugs. He wished he had a way with words. And more than anything else, he wished that he’d known Castiel all his life, or at least longer than one single night, so that it wouldn’t be completely crazy for him to turn round right now and say,  _You and me, we should try belonging together._

“I could… belong somewhere I feel different. I never thought of it that way,” Castiel said quietly. “Never. And I never would have done, I don’t think.” He turned to Dean, who shivered slightly under his gaze.

“You’re cold,” Castiel said, frowning. “We can go inside. Come on, I’ll put on the water for another hot drink.”

They stood up in unison, Dean only remembering his mug after he was on his feet, and bending over to pick it up. For a few moments, they stood facing outwards together, looking up at the stars for one last time that night. And then, as one, they turned – both inwards, so that they ended up facing each other, and Dean had fully intended to keep turning towards the door, but then suddenly Castiel was close and directly opposite him and there was just a little of his scent in the air between them and his eyes were on Dean’s and everything stopped – Dean’s movements, his breathing, his heart,  _everything_.

“Dean…” said Castiel, in that voice that reached Dean in all the right ways, with those eyes that ran back so deep that Dean could get lost in them – or perhaps looked so intensely, so knowingly, that Dean could only be found by them. “Dean… I’m lucky to have met you tonight.”

And Dean didn’t know what to say to that. All of the words he’d ever known flew out of his head, and he was just staring at Castiel with big wide eyes and a stupid half-open ‘o’-shaped mouth and nothing at all to  _say_ – but he had to say something, because Castiel was looking at him searchingly, wanting to know if he felt the same.

He was tongue-tied, and wordless, still.

And so finally,  _finally,_ with no other way to reciprocate but this, Dean took in a deep breath… and stretched out his hand.  _Being good with your hands is a talent._  Gently, gently, he touched the back of his curled fingers to the cool skin of Castiel’s cheek.

It felt – it felt like skin, slightly scruffy with past-midnight shadow. And it felt like coldness against coldness, the night chilling them both to the bone. And more than either of those two things, it felt heart-thuddingly, terrifyingly, amazingly, shudderingly  _good_ , the simplicity of the touch, the way Castiel’s breath sighed out through slightly-parted lips, the way Dean stroked, ever so slightly, letting his fingers trail softly down Castiel’s cheek and over his chin, with the pad of his thumb brushing over Castiel’s lips…

Castiel breathed in, and then out, the cool and warm inrush and outrush of air sweeping over the backs of Dean’s fingers –

And suddenly he couldn’t wait any longer. He couldn’t bear for a single second more to do anything but slide his hand around the back of Castiel’s neck and lean in close and barely pause for a single, breathless second to allow Castiel to close the gap between them and then – oh, and then…

Oh, God, it was like nothing else Dean had ever experienced in his life. There was kissing, and then there was  _this_ … it was as though the Earth stopped moving, and the only way Dean knew he was alive and that time hadn’t stopped was because his knees were shaking and his fingers were trembling and against his lips, Castiel’s were moving, slow and gentle and loving, and then – fuck, then – oh, God, Castiel’s hand was on his cheek, was in his hair, was tugging him in deeper and Dean didn’t hold back; he almost dropped his hot chocolate mug as he wrapped one arm around Castiel’s waist, keeping the other hand pressed firmly to the back of Castiel’s neck and holding him close, close, close, tasting bittersweet chocolate on his tongue.

When at last they pulled apart, it was only to press their foreheads together and sigh into each other’s mouths, Dean’s eyes still closed, each breath an indrawn Castiel. Dear  _God._ That had been – that had been the best kiss of his entire  _life._ How was he – how was he ever supposed to enjoy kissing again, after that?

And yet – when he slid his eyes open, finally, and looked down at Castiel’s lips, he thought that he could probably give it a try.

Castiel leaned in, and pressed a gentle kiss to Dean’s cheek. He said nothing, and Dean understood. Nothing needed to be said. It had been the same for both of them.

“Castiel?” he said, pulling away just a little – barely an inch, but almost an inch too far. “I – I want to do this right.”

His eyes searched Castiel’s, trying to see what Castiel was thinking. It was impossible; his face was inscrutable.

“I know how I must’ve come off at the bar, at first, but…” Dean swallowed. Castiel wouldn’t kick him out for this, right? Surely not. Not after  _that,_ not after everything they’d said to each other tonight. “I want to take this slow. And you know, not… well…  _yeah_. Not tonight, straight away. Because I want to do it right. Is that – is that OK?”

Castiel’s eyes were changing, suddenly becoming softer - and sadder, Dean thought at first with a little clutch of horror – but then he saw the smile lines around Castiel’s mouth, and realised that Castiel wasn’t sad. He looked… he looked relieved, he looked happy in the way that was so profound, it was  _almost_  sad.

“Slow is the only way I do things,” he said softly. “I want to do this right, too.”

He squeezed Dean’s hand, and together they walked inside. They drank some more, they talked some more, they kissed a great deal more. And when morning came, it found them curled up together upstairs in Castiel’s bed, Dean’s cheek pressed to the back of Castiel’s neck, Castiel’s hand gripping Dean’s firmly against his chest, intertwined legs running smooth lines of warm, pressed-close skin down the soft sheets of the bed.

In a few more hours, Dean would wake up with a sleepy smile to find Castiel rolling over, eyes blinking open, hands reaching out to cup Dean’s cheeks and pull him in for their first kiss of the new day.

But they’d been up all night, and that wouldn’t be for a while yet.

For now, let them sleep.


End file.
